Ghost on the dance floor

Like a ghost on the dance floor,

moving in haunting grace,

flourishing in filigree

and fainting between twirls.

She lets herself hang onto every last step until it’s exhausted it’s poetry.

Every romantic movement of the muscles, memorized and mimicked in a melancholy memoir depicting the

murder of love.

The physical death of a rose and the emotions it released in its final moments, the frangrance of death, still as sweet as summer vibrance, but not long for this world.

I think she understands this,

so when the dance dies,

she lets it Rest In Peace.